Can't Look Away(73)
Molly stares at him, her heart in her throat. “I’m worried I’m still in love with you, Jake.”
The rain begins to fall more steadily, drumming on the roof of the gazebo. He steps toward her.
“Moll.” Jake’s voice is old and familiar; a heartstring echoes in her chest. “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at that grungy bar in Brooklyn.”
A roll of thunder cracks in the distance. His shoulders are square with hers now, and his body is close—too close—and there’s something happening that she cannot stop. She thinks about the most mundane parts of her daily existence—opening Amazon boxes, folding up the cardboard. Sponging crumbs from the kitchen counter. Laundry. Hormone injections that make her feel like a dump truck. Blood tests. Cutting up another batch of chicken nuggets into bite-size pieces. Rinse and repeat. Then, suddenly, one summer Sunday—this. Jake. Him. Them.
Jake uses his thumbs to brush the tears from her cheeks, an electric current hissing in the space between their bodies. Molly’s knees soften, the joints disintegrating. She feels heavy and light at the same time. She won’t have the willpower to push him away, and it feels good to know this, to accept it.
Jake leans forward; the edge of his nose brushes hers, and she gives in to the heady combination of heart and loins against which her mind is defenseless.
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, just before he kisses her.
It’s a kiss that demolishes her, that relieves her. She feels as if she’s falling, tumbling backward through the air while his mouth works hers open, his lips soft but firm and too familiar, a time capsule. She runs her fingers along the stubble of his jawline and through the curls at the back of his neck, locked in the present moment, deliciously free from the anxieties of the past, of the future.
Jake pushes her against the wall of the gazebo with the weight of his body as rain smacks the roof above them. He cups her face with his hands, rakes his fingers through her hair and down the length of her body. If he never stops, Molly thinks, that would be okay.
“My car,” he whispers, and she nods into his neck.
They run through the rain to Jake’s Jeep Wrangler, which is the only car left in the lot besides Molly’s. In the back seat, Molly hooks her thighs around his waist, and it’s pure muscle memory, the two of them being together like this. He works the T-shirt over her head, pressing his mouth to the silky fabric of her bra, over the hardness of her nipple, and it is then that the sensory momentum propelling Molly forward jerks to a halt.
She thinks of Hunter, suddenly: Hunter sitting beside her in the waiting room at every prenatal appointment with Stella, flipping through old issues of Parents magazine. Hunter building the IKEA crib in the nursery on a brutally hot summer day, before they moved into a place with air-conditioning. Hunter installing the car seat in their old green Subaru. Hunter squeezing Molly’s sweat-slicked hand in those last wild moments before she pushed Stella out into the world. Hunter carrying their tiny blond bundle in the Babybj?rn on walks, that first magical fall the three of them spent as a family. Hunter sending her Zillow links to homes in Flynn Cove, along with comprehensive notes on each: Nice but needs new roof; kitchen just renovated—beautiful; TWO working fireplaces; might be too close to the highway; a full acre but some of it could be wetlands—will check town map. More recent memories, too: Hunter’s content smile on Becky’s boat, tiller in hand, Molly and Stella sitting in the cockpit—his happy place, out for a sail with his girls. Hunter reading with Stella every night after her bath, the line of concentration that furrows his brow as he helps her sound out the words in The Cat in the Hat. Hunter bringing Molly her coffee in bed more mornings than not. Hunter mowing the lawn every weekend, the sweaty, earthy smell of his skin when he comes in from working outside. The hope that shimmered in Hunter’s kind, grounding eyes after their latest embryo transfer, the heartening optimism in his voice: This is going to happen for us, I know it, Moll. Hunter. Her husband. Her daughter’s father. Her whole life.
Molly pulls back, studying Jake, her head a tornado. Tears run down her cheeks. She loathes herself.
“I love you,” Jake is whispering, his hands gripping her rib cage. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He is there, ready, lips parted, and despite all that is at stake, there is a magnetic force that Molly cannot fight. She knows, then, as her body pitches forward, loses herself in his kiss, in his touch, that she isn’t the woman she thought she was.
Who is she?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sabrina
Jake has been distracted for the past few days—I have to ask him three times which fabric he prefers for the living room pillows before he even registers what I’m talking about.
He’s started to look at his phone with the frequency of a teenage girl. This morning, when he takes the garbage out, I finally steal a glance at his texts.
You have plans to meet at Skipping Beach at eleven. You’re bringing Stella, which I presume means you’ve told Hunter where you’re going. You’re using your daughter, no doubt, to make your husband feel more comfortable. To make it appear as though you’re not really seeing Jake “alone.” You have such an agenda, Molly.
Jake comes back inside, his hair still tousled from sleep. He rubs the inner corners of his eyes. He seems to notice me for the first time all morning, standing at the sink, doing his fucking dishes.